Kiss My Apocalypse
by copyallcatsandacrobats
Summary: The world is ending, sure, but something else could be starting. In which there is absolutely no more pie, and Shawn needs to take off at least one sock for common courtesy. (Shawn/Lassiter Zombie Apocalypse one-shot.)


"So, it's the end of the world," Spencer said.

Lassiter looked up from reloading his Smith & Wesson 629 long enough to roll his eyes at him. "Guess _that_ vision was way off-schedule, huh?" he said. Not that he ever believed the psychic bullshit in the first place, so he can't really fault him for not knowing this was coming. However, if he _had_ claimed the dead were soon going to rise up to eat the living, Lassiter knew he would have brushed that aside as easily as he had the other man's claim of a dinosaur being responsible for a murder.

Although, to be fair, that had turned out to be true.

He still wasn't psychic, though—zombies being real or not, Lassiter was _never_ going to believe that. Nope. Not happening.

"Dude," Spencer said, giving him an impatient look that said he might as well have been reading Lassiter's mind and picking up on these last thoughts. "Lassy. It's us against Right Said Dead. Let's form an alliance. When Jules and Gus get back with more supplies, we're all going to join hands and sing 'It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)' before the orgy starts."

_Orgy_? "Nobody knows the words to that song," Lassiter said, and then he leveled a finger at Spencer when he perked up as if he'd been challenged. "Don't."

"But I was going to serenade you."

"No, you weren't."

Spencer pouted. "Aw, c'mon, Lass, you gotta give me something, here. It's not like I can run out and buy you flowers and chocolates in the shape of tactical firearms." He paused, considering. "Although I've never seen a flower shaped like a gun. Maybe a gun that shoots flowers? Firepower and Flower Power are kinda the same, right?"

What the hell was he blabbering about now? "Not even close, Spencer. Can you please pay attention to the watch you're supposed to be doing so I can finish getting these weapons ready?"

"Sure, sure." Spencer sighed and turned back to the window.

It was quiet for the next couple of minutes except for the sounds of Lassiter performing minor maintenance on nearly all of the firearms he and O'Hara had been able to get their hands on (mostly his personal collection) before the Police Department was overrun. She and Guster had each taken one along for their scouting mission, so he would make a note to rotate them out tomorrow to make sure everything stayed in perfect working order. That was the only way any of them were going to get through this: guns and organization. Spencer had surprised Lassiter and O'Hara by being moderately competent with firearms (and he'd surprised them further by having what appeared to be Carlton Lassiter-level of marksmanship, pinging a zombie dead between the eyes at a block away when they were clearing a car to make it out of the city), although he had easily surrendered the Glock he'd been carrying when Lassiter began laying out the rest to clean, oil, and reload. Guster had quickly admitted to having a textbook knowledge of firearms but almost no experience, but O'Hara had pointed out that he could hardly miss at point-blank range if a zombie was coming right at him, and in that case, it was better to have one than to not. Although Lassiter had seen the doubtful look on Spencer's face at that, he'd given Guster one of his more simple revolvers and instructed him to point and shoot if necessary.

"How long have they been gone?" Spencer asked suddenly.

Lassiter turned his arm enough to glance at his watch. "An hour and forty minutes." He didn't need to glance up to know that Spencer was probably worried about them. Lassiter wasn't. Not very much, anyway. O'Hara had quick reflexes and a superb aim herself. "They're fine," he said. "It'll probably take an hour just to scope the perimeter of the block, and another to sweep that grocery store for hostiles before they can inventory any remaining supplies that might be of use."

"Hostiles," Spencer muttered.

"Yes, hostiles," Lassiter repeated, giving him an impatient look. "Why, are you getting any _psychic visions_ that the _dead_ are trying to talk to you? What are they saying, 'Save me a leg'?"

Spencer looked incredulous. "Wow," he said softly. "You're no longer allowed in my alliance. It's just going to be me, Gus, and Jules against the dead. You can still come with, but know that we only like you for your body." He paused. "Lassy, let me ask you a question. Think about it, okay?"

What happened to that lovely silence? Oh, that's right. O'Hara refused to take Spencer with her, citing his never-ending nervous chatter as enticing to zombies and distracting to her. "Fine, what."

"Have I mentioned being psychic, or having visions, even one single time since we all met up and made it out of Santa Barbara together?"

Lassiter did think about it, because suddenly he realized that no, Spencer hadn't. He hadn't shut up or sat still for five minutes at a time since, but now that it had been brought to his attention, he was sure of it, because he was equally certain that he would have snapped about it before if Spencer had so much as touched his forehead. "No," he said, and looked up, frowning. "Embarrassed that you were left out of the loop?"

"No," Spencer said. He just looked back at Lassiter for a long moment, and then he took a few steps away from the window he was supposed to be watching through. He looked almost as solemn as he did when Lassiter had opened the closet door of the Psych office, finding both fakes cringing on the floor. Guster had nearly been in tears, and Spencer had thrown both hands over his face as the door swung open, but he peeked through his fingers; when he saw who had come to get them he had bounced to his feet and thrown both arms around Lassiter hard, whispering "Thank you, _thank you Lassy._" Lassiter had been so surprised—not only to actually find them there (most of him had been sure they were either dead or that he would just never know, but he felt like he had to try), but at the way Spencer was shaking and squeezing him—that he'd started to raise his arms without thinking about it. But then Spencer let him go and stepped back, hauling Guster up; both had hugged O'Hara tightly as well, too frightened still to smile or make stupid jokes.

Now, although stupid jokes had more than made their big comeback in the last week, Spencer was serious again, his eyes bright but intent. "It's the end of the world," he said again, this time possibly to himself, as his eyes cut away from Lassiter's and he licked his lips.

Lassiter was suddenly a little uncomfortable, and he didn't like it. He liked less than he wasn't sure what exactly was happening, or what may be about to happen. "So... what, you're going to claim the zombie apocalypse killed off your 'powers'?"

"No," Spencer said quietly, and looked at him again. "I don't have any powers. I never did." The corners of his mouth quirked up as if he wanted to smile, but his eyes now looked a little worried. "You were right. I was never psychic."

Lassiter blinked. He stared for a long moment, and then he looked down at his guns to regain his composure. He felt so vindicated, so justified in all the criticisms he's ever lobbed toward this clown that he wanted to crow and then rub it in his face. However, at the same time, he was furious: _all that time_ Spencer lied to everyone and, for all intents and purposes, had gotten away with it. He was absolutely a fraud; all the times he made the police force (not to mention Lassiter himself) look like fools, all the times he mocked and pranced and seemed to pull answers directly out of his ass. He swindled the city of Santa Barbara out of thousands of dollars, he used them for free advertisement for his own private dog-and-pony show, he... he solved numerous cases, either directing the department to evidence or getting suspects to confess to crimes, and he helped put away many criminals.

"Uh... Lassy?"

He looked back up at Spencer, taking in how apprehensive the little shit looked now. Good.

"Um... can you say something?" Spencer licked his lips again, and Lassiter noticed that they were a slightly darker shade of pink than before, as if he had been biting at them.

"How," he said flatly.

Spencer shrugged. "The short answer is that I have a photographic memory and I'm hyper-observant. And my dad started training me to be a cop when I was five. All that is how I ended up with the perfect score on the D.E.T. I took the Secret Service exam, too—piece of pie."

"Cake," Lassiter said, feeling distracted. "It's piece of cake."

"Oh, you thought so too? That doesn't surprise me—you're actually a really amazing detective."

"The phrase." He tried to tear his gaze away from Spencer's bright, knowing eyes, his face, only to find that he was locked in on those lips again. The lying lips of the apparent genius fraud who really could do what he did, but with his own mind. It really was the end— "It's piece of cake."

"Hmm, that may be, but after I took the exam, I went straight to Polly's Pie Palace and ordered one of everything that ended in '-cream'." Spencer suddenly made a face. "Word to the wise? If someone ever adds Avocado Cream Pie to the menu, just don't. You want to go traditional, you head for the smooth richness of Banana Cream, or maybe Custard Cream or Pineapple and Coconut Dream. Pumpkin and Sweet Potato cream are a little more spicy, and you can always go summery if you want to dig into Lemon Supreme Cream or Kickin' Kiwi-Lime Cream—"

"Spencer, why are you telling me this?"

Spencer shut his mouth for a good five or even seven seconds. "I dunno," he said finally. "It's not like we have ready access to sweet desserts anymore. We are in a desert of desserts."

Lassiter let out a deep breath and considered his guns as a way of centering himself. They were basically finished except for putting them away, so he couldn't busy his hands with them anymore. "You should have been a cop," he said abruptly.

Spencer made a face for a split second before shrugging, nonchalant again. "Nah. Cop rules cramp my style too much. Plus, I couldn't, not after the thing with the car."

_The thing with the car._ Right. The theft and his subsequent arrest. "You did that on purpose." He had never been given any indication of that, but Lassiter was suddenly one hundred percent sure of it.

And then Spencer confirmed it for him by shrugging again. "I thought it'd get my dad off my ass about when I was going to join the academy if I couldn't. You've met my dad—I don't think I need to tell you how well that worked." He sighed. "I _am_ a detective, Lassy. I'm just not sanctioned by the force—and look, I'm not even going to make an awesome comment about the forces of the universe. I really can just look at things, or people, and know information most other people can't see."

Lassiter was still having a hell of a time dealing with this. The knowledge that Spencer really was brilliant wasn't _exactly_ news—he had known for a long time that Spencer was a lot more intelligent than he liked to let on, a lot more clever, and the idea that there were hidden deep wells in the seeming shallowness of his eyes had occurred to him more than once. "That still doesn't tell me why you're bothering to share now," he said.

"It's the end of the world, Lassy," Spencer said again, his voice soft and careful. "Everything is over with. Including pretext. There's no need to lie about anything anymore, no need for secrets—not with us, anyway. We're all we have left. You, and Gus, and Jules—you're all I have left of everything, and... you know, all bets are off. There's _nothing_ I wouldn't do for any of you."

"Really," Lassiter said flatly, thinking, _Liar_.

"I know how much you hate it when I lie," Spencer said, reading his mind and holding his eyes again. "I'll tell you anything you want to know."

His thoughts flew with questions, with possibilities—but he was also a detective, a real one, and he came back to his still-unanswered question. "Why," he asked again. "_Why_ are you bothering to tell me? Does it even matter to you? Everyone we knew is dead. Nothing can ever be proved. Are you just out of cons for the apocalypse?"

"No," Spencer said. "I just... want you to be able to trust me now. I'm part of all you have left too." He paused again, and this time when his face changed slightly, as he quirked one eyebrow up, it was both sly and inviting. "We could be dead tomorrow."

"That's very comforting." Lassiter sighed. "I don't trust out of necessity, Spencer. Trust is earned. You could still be lying and, as I've said, there's no way to prove anything now."

He was surprised when Spencer actually looked slightly crushed at that. "I'm not lying, Lassy," he said. "Not anymore, I swear it. I just told you, like, the biggest thing I never wanted you to know before."

"Oh yeah? What's the second biggest?"

He'd only meant it as an empty challenge, but he should've known Spencer better by now: the way he simply picked it up and demolished it seemed to speak to his sincerity as well. "That I really, really want to kiss you right now," he said quietly.

Lassiter jerked in his seat, looking up in near shock. "What?"

Spencer shrugged, looking a little embarrassed, a lot more apprehensive. "That's the truth, Lass. That's what it all boils down to, at least from where I'm standing. It's the end of the world and, if you're okay with it, I don't want to wait one more second. I don't want to dance around it or have to wade through societal hangups or labels or any of that crap. I've liked you for a long time... so..." He looked more uncomfortable now, as Lassiter simply continued to stare at him, but he also looked defiant, and determined. "We're all that we have left, and I want you. I'll do whatever you need to make that happen." He shifted on his feet. "But if you're really against it, or if you don't like me like that at all—or you can't—then that's cool. I'll still be really glad you found me and got me out. We're all in this together no matter _how_ we are, so... can you say something? Or should I, like... leave you alone for awhile?"

"Spencer," he said, and his voice was squeezed as his insides felt like they were constricting and expanding all at once. "I... I don't understand."

"Yes, you do." Spencer slowly came over to the sofa Lassiter was on, going around the table where the guns were laid out; then he sat on the edge of the sofa next to him, not close enough to touch, but close. His eyes were soft and earnest and longing, and although Lassiter can't help but to wonder how much of this was really true, how much he actually felt and how much of it was just the situation, he wasn't sure how much it mattered. Spencer was right, to a point—not much of anything mattered now. Survival, of course. And their little group, each person he'd made it out with; each person he would now die to protect, to keep.

He thought back to the moment when he and O'Hara made it to the Psych office, her standing guard by the big window, which had been broken, while he killed one zombie that was grunting and slobbering in the back room. Seeing blood on Spencer's desk and not allowing himself to think it until the entire office had been cleared. He'd noticed the closet door and tried it just because it was closed, yanking it open hard with one hand while raising his gun in the other. He was so relieved when he—they—were there, and alive, that he couldn't speak. He'd finally been able to demand that they both show their exposed arms (he'd meant _Are you hurt?_ and had only managed _Are you infected?_) and they had, both assuring Lassiter and O'Hara that they hadn't been bitten or scratched, that the blood came from a zombie that went for Guster—Spencer had managed to shove it back against his desk and then hit it with his putter before dragging Guster into the closet with him. Lassiter had been moderately impressed with the story, which he'd believed because they were both terrified, not bragging, but what had come over him the most was a feeling associated with Spencer's long, smooth arms, his unbroken and undamaged skin. He was okay, and now that Lassiter had found him, he could keep him safe.

"Shawn," he said, and his voice felt dry and brittle. Using his first name suddenly evoked a second feeling in him; the idea that something was known academically but discarded in practice—like the love of his ex-wife, like the notion of friendship, like the way Spencer's quick eyes could look into him and pull out his heart.

"Lassy," Spencer said, his voice barely more than a whisper, and when he raised his eyebrows it was all the question he needed to ask. He started to lean forward, but he still looked as if he wasn't sure if he should expect a kiss or a punch in the face.

Lassiter raised his hand slowly, told himself that there was nothing but Shawn, and then he gently put his hand on Spencer's cheek and kissed him.

Spencer parted his lips instantly, and then he moaned very quietly as they sank into each other. Spencer pulled back after just a minute and Lassiter was confused—was that not good? Was that not what he, what they both, wanted?—before Spencer moved closer and was suddenly in his lap, straddling him, easing him back so that Lassiter was pressed into the sofa and Spencer was pressed into him. Spencer looked at him and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly in the way they did when he was really happy about something. Lassiter had seen that look when he'd solved cases, and although he was quite pleasantly pinned down, he felt light and happy himself that he was the cause of that look now. Spencer leaned down and they kissed again; Lassiter's fingers trailed up his thighs to his hips, underneath the hem of his shirt, and he gently stroked the smooth skin of his sides. Shawn sighed into his mouth and gave him his tongue again, grinding down on his lap, both of his hands squeezing Lassiter's shoulders. He broke their kiss and trailed his lips across Lassiter's jaw and to his neck, sucking on his skin in a way that sent tingles all over Lassiter's body and caused him to pull Spencer closer.

"Lassy," he whispered. "You have no idea how much I want you right now. Just like this." He pulled up enough so that they could look at each other, and Lassiter found himself almost fascinated by the lust he saw there, the want he had caused. He could feel how hard Spencer was and wanted to touch him, wanted to get his mouth on that warm, smooth skin, to suck him off and hear him moan helplessly, feeling him squirm and start to writhe right before it happened. Spencer leaned a little closer but didn't kiss him again; instead, he just held that intense gaze. "You could fuck me like this," he said, his voice low and nearly hypnotic.

Lassiter grazed his hands up Spencer's sides until they were high enough to reach his nipples, and when his fingers brushed over them, Shawn ground against him again and almost shoved his tongue into his mouth. His nipples were small and hard and clearly very sensitive—as Lassiter lightly pinched one and rubbed the other, Shawn moved closer and closer into him, until his hard cock inside his pants poked roughly into Lassiter's stomach. "Shawn," he said, and that was all he _could_ say.

"Oh, Lassy," Spencer breathed. "Oh my god. I want you... oh, fuck, I want every part of you." He moved his mouth to Lassiter's ear and whispered new gospel to him. "I want to feel you. I want your dick in me, Lassy. Fuck me. Fuck me."

And he wanted to, more than he'd wanted anything in a long time, but although he was almost over the edge with wanting him, he wasn't ready to lose control just yet. "Soon," he promised, and turned his head so that he could kiss Shawn again while he dropped his hands to the other man's jeans and undid the button. He still wanted to touch him, to feel him, to make him come, and his hands could surely make that happen while Shawn looked down at him and thrust into his hand and gripped his shoulders.

He pulled down the zipper of his jeans, and had just gotten Shawn's dick into his hand—he was _so_ fucking hard, and his eyelids fluttered when Lassiter squeezed lightly—when the door opened.

"Shawn, we're back, we—ewwwww!" Guster shrieked, backing out into the hallway so quickly that he apparently almost knocked O'Hara over.

Lassiter cursed loudly before managing to cut himself off, realizing much too late that he'd been so caught up with Spencer that he hadn't heard someone coming up the stairs of the abandoned house they'd taken over for shelter—a rookie mistake, a stupid mistake, a way-to-get-yourself-and-everyone-else-killed-by-zombies mistake. He jerked his hand back, lifted Spencer off his lap, and dumped him onto the other side of the sofa in one quick moment. "Quiet!" he snapped at everyone, as Guster was still whining about how he never wanted to see his best friend like that, O'Hara was actually _giggling_, and Spencer was laughing and muttering something about it being time for the orgy as he tucked his cock back into his jeans and re-situated them. "Now is _not_ the time, okay?" Lassiter glared at each of them. "We were just—just—"

"Interrupted," Spencer supplied, giving Guster and O'Hara a haughty look as he smoothed his shirt down. "Jeez, you guys, don't you know how to knock?"

"Don't you know how to get a room?" Guster shot back.

"This is a room!" Spencer insisted. "Four walls and everything!"

"Your own room!"

"I was here first."

"Technically,_ I_ was here first," O'Hara pointed out, going over to the window to glance down at the street. "I chose it for the vantage point, and Carlton agreed that we should stay here while you two were checking the kitchen for food."

"Okay, well... along with solid structure of these four walls, there's also a door," Spencer said. "Which I even _closed_."

"You didn't put a sock on the knob," O'Hara said, giving Lassiter a sideways look that he tried his best to ignore, feeling his ears going bright red.

"Oh, sorry," Spencer said, and waved at them. "It's the Zombie Apocalypse, but dorm rules still apply. I should've known."

"Yes, you should have," O'Hara said primly. "That's all we ask, Shawn, Carlton." Lassiter gave her a look, but she simply gazed back at him openly. "If you two want to stay in this room tonight, that's fine—Gus and I will have the one down the hall, there are bunk beds in there. It's best that we stay close together, but _some_ courtesy can surely be afforded in the interest of comfort." She brightened and unslung the backpack she was wearing. "Do you guys want to inventory our new supplies now, or would you like to resume your—um—privacy?"

"Oh my god," Lassiter muttered. It was true that they could all be dead tomorrow, but right now he sort of wanted to slip into a hole in the ground. He flicked his eyes over at Spencer, who looked at him, licked his lips, and grinned. Okay, maybe not a hole. Or maybe a hole would be okay, as long as Shawn was there too.

"Ooookay," O'Hara said then. "Come on, Gus—we'll take the first watch, and you guys can stay up and take the watch tonight while we sleep."

"If I ever sleep again," Guster muttered.

"I'm sorry, buddy," Spencer said sincerely. "If any of my clothes come off, I promise a sock for the doorknob will be first."

"You know that's right," Guster said, and shook his head as if to clear it while he followed O'Hara out. She glanced back over her shoulder and gave Lassiter a smile before she closed the door, one that seemed to mean, _I knew it!_

"So, Lassy," Spencer said, and grinned hugely at him. "Should I... take my sock off?"

Lassiter regarded him for a long moment, thinking of what had just happened, what had been about to happen, and what could still happen. He smiled a little. "This is going to be a long apocalypse, isn't it," he said.

"I sure hope so, because I could do this for the rest of my life." Shawn got back into his lap, which was right where he belonged, and when they kissed again Lassiter decided that he no longer felt like this was the end of anything.


End file.
